


Whitley Schnee is Not a Fighter

by Vestal (OwlEspresso)



Category: RWBY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 02:03:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/Vestal
Summary: His father's hand is curled around his feeble wrist, personal progress growing cold.





	Whitley Schnee is Not a Fighter

Whitley Schnee is not a fighter. 

Whitley Schnee sits behind his sisters and listens to his mother’s shrill screaming. He hears the quiet malice in his father’s voice. More than anything, though, he hears the silence that settles after they finish dinner. He hides in his room and buries himself in his books. The steak Diane from dinner settles sourly in his stomach. His small fingers tremble around the pencil in his hand. 

He thinks back to the semblance he doesn’t have, and how it narrows his chances of leaving this frozen place. He thinks back to his skillset and knows that his father values logistics and mathematics. He knows that father will keep him around, even though he’s not the company’s chosen heir. There is no escape. He stares at the blank page and mindlessly moves his gaze over the passages in his textbook. These are the only skills he can bank his worth on. He’s numb, but he processes the printed information because he has to. The sight of his mother’s fingers curled tightly around her wine glass haunts him.

Whitley shuts his eyes and opens them. He feels colder than he did before.

1:7_:14=_:21=4:_=5:_=_:42

Standard, seventh grade math. He faints remembers Winter praising him over his advanced knowledge. He remembers the jealous glance that Weiss gave him. He remembers being satisfied. Math is her worst subject. It’s the only advantage he has.

Whitley Schnee’s life has been a constant uphill climb, a desperate attempt to prove his worth against his older sisters. He loves them, but it’s beyond difficult to be in their presence without being suffocated. His father reassures him about his lack of power

“As long as you prove your worth, I will make sure you succeed in life.”

Why does he have to prove anything? Is this what parents do to their children? Is this how families act? Do other children have to prove themselves to their parents? Are other children forced to compete against their siblings by the influence of some, vague threat? What does his father consider worthy? Whitley solves his math problems, because they’re the only problems he can solve at al. He’s too weak to stand for himself. He’s too young to free himself from his father’s clutches.

Whitley Schnee is nine years old and he’s doing seventh-grade math problems. He’s young and afraid and desperately cultivating skills so his father doesn’t throw him out. His family has all of the wealth in the world, but he’s struggling to make it, anyways.

\------

Two years later, Whitley is eleven. The spite that began to brew when he was seven has started to consume him. Winter has left them, abandoning her position as heir to become a military official. Whitley hid in his room for six days after her departure. Father was furious with her, naturally. He was frustrated because he no longer had control over her. He could no longer restrict her lifestyle or tell her what to do. Whitley wants to be happy for her, but he’s been left behind and he still has years to struggle through. Mother supported her decision. She said she wished Father was dead, to his face. Whitley can’t deny the satisfaction he felt at the rage in Father’s eyes.

All he can do is try to feel happy for her. All he can do is avert his eyes and try to resist his lack of confidence. He loves Winter and Weiss because they’re his sisters. He hates Winter and Weiss because they represent everything he can never be. They represent chances he will never have and a prison he can never escape from.

The sun room in the east wing of the mansion is where he does most of his studying. He’s sworn his allegiance to the Schnee family name in order to appease Father, so he’s mostly left to his own devices. He’s tarte looking at financial models and learning how to handle company emails. He’s also flawlessly continuing his education, outclassing his peers and impressing his father’s business allies. He reaches over to the coffee mug on the table and takes a small sip. He doesn’t look up when he hears the door creak open, doesn’t look up as heels click towards him. He keeps his eyes on the crisp pages in front of him.

“Whitley?” It’s been two days since he’s spoken to Weiss and the realization makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. He looks up at her with a smile. She’s staring straight at him with her hands at her sides. They’re squeezed into fists and gripping her frilly skirt. She looks unsure of herself, wary in a way that he hardly ever sees from her. He relishes in her insecurity and promptly hates himself for it. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” He smiles but his stomach curls. When did he start resenting the people he cares about the most?

“We—you haven’t spoken to me in two days. Did I do something wrong?” Whitley is actually surprised. She hardly ever admits her flaws. She’s been built up and groomed into an image of perfection. It only makes him feel worse, knowing that he’s only going to isolate himself even more. One day, Weiss is going to lead the company, and Whitley can’t help the envy that claws at his chest. Because she’s older. Because she’s been blessed with talent from the very start. Because their genes favor her, but not him. Never him. “I know that Winter leaving has been… hard on the both of us. But you know you’re not alone, right?” More than anything, she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

“Unlike you, Winter didn’t favor me,” He replies. The words are sweet barbs on his tongue. It breaks his heart to talk to her so cruelly, but all of his pent up frustration finally has an outlet, “So, no. I don’t miss her. She made her choice. And that choice was to abandon us for her own success.” Weiss looks utterly distraught. It’s the first time he’s ever seen her so upset. It feels like he’s kicked a puppy. It feels like he’s hurt someone near and dear to him. Weiss is the only real ally he has, here. She’s the only person he can spill his heart to. But if he delights in her misery, does he really have a heart at all? Maybe Weiss is better off without him. Maybe Winter is better off without him.

Maybe he’s better off without them. Because he constantly feel like Father is watching him, breathing down his neck, trying to divide them all. He’s been a burden from the very start. He can’t make glyphs and he doesn’t have the strength to free himself from this place. It’ll be easier to just do what Father wants. It won’t hurt, as much.

“Well, if you feel like that, maybe I should leave, too!” Weiss bristles, eyebrows furrowing into a scowl. She’s always been protective of Winter. More than anything, he wants to tell her that he feels inferior in every way. He wants her to hug him and smile and reassure him. But he remains silent, thinking it’s better to isolate himself. She has bigger and better things to do with her life. She’s told him that she wants to go to Beacon, far away from this cold place he hesitantly calls a home. He can’t make her worry, because then she might stay behind. “What’s wrong, Whitley? We hardly talk. You’re the only one who listens to me. You’re the only one I can still talk to! I don’t—I can’t feel safe around Father or Mother!”

“Nothing is ‘wrong’ with me, sister,” Whitley wears a thin smile and stares at her with it, “I’m simply stating my opinion. Nothing more. If you really don’t feel safe here, then maybe to should go to Beacon. Like you’ve been talking about for so long.” For a split second, Weiss looks like he’s torn her world down around her. A sinking feeling settles in his chest, because he’s started burning the only bridges he has. He could apologize. He could build their relationship back up to what it used to be, back to what it’s always been. But he won’t. Because he’s chosen the path his life will take at eleven years old.

“Maybe I will, then.” Weiss’s posture straightens and slips on a composed face, the same one she wears when in the presence of their father.

“Good luck, sister.” Whitley turns his gaze back to the row of pages neatly assembled in his lap. He doesn’t look up when Weiss leaves the room. Instead, he listens to the click of her heels down the hallway and hopes she’ll be gone, soon.

\------

Whitley Schnee is thirteen when he attends one of his father’s banquets. He’s been brought to several of them, before. It’s not like it’s his first time talking to his father’s snooty business allies or eating rich horderves that are too small to actually enjoy, but it’s his first time attending one of his meals without Winter or Weiss. In the back of his mind, he remembers hushed conversations with Weiss, mocking a haughty noble woman’s gaudy dress or making exaggerated imitations of their father’s voice. Now, he’s left to his own devices.

He doesn’t idle.

“Well, we pay our faunus employees just as much as any others. However, it’s the health care benefits that are lacking.” Whitley listens to his father debate on faunus rights for the thousandth time in his life. Rights activists never seem to tire of asking the same, tired questions over and over. Whitley knows his father is bigoted, but no one is ever going to catch him saying something blatantly discriminatory. 

“That really doesn’t make it any better.” A bespeckled noble in a brown suit insists. His eyebrows furrow slightly and his nose scrunches.

“Actually,” Whitley pipes up, and the argumentative man quiets, “Faunus workers require less healthcare benefits due to their superior immune systems. They’re apt to be stronger than most humans, and don’t get sick or injured as easily. We would love to give all our employees equal health benefits, but we can’t afford it due to recent rebellions in Mistral, which have affected productivity levels in our mines. It’s only natural to take away benefits from those who need them the least,” The information Whitley gives is from an outdated study, one proven wrong by scholars years ago. However, the nobles in Atlas are ridiculously uneducated about faunus rights, much less biology. He’s made a gamble by assuming the bespeckled man is oblivious, just like the rest.

The nobleman huffs, and doesn’t make an immediate reply, proving Whitley’s assumption right. The brown-suited noble grumbles out a half-witted excuse and scrambles over to the dessert table, leaving Whitley with his father.

“My apologies, father,” Father shouldn’t get mad at being defended, but Whitley apologizes just in case he does, “I just couldn’t stand listening to that nonsense any longer. You think he would have read one of the articles where you’ve answered all the same questions,” Father, who had perhaps been stunned by his sudden input, shakes his head and looks at him with an approving expression. There’s a new sharpness in his gaze. In that instance, Whitley knows that he’s accomplished what he set out to do from the start. He’ll carve his presence into his father’s mind, make it unable to envision the future of the company without him. He doesn’t need a flashy semblance or combat skills to earn his place. He doesn’t need to be a huntsman. What can a huntsman do that an army cannot?

“No, it’s no problem. I thought I’d never be able to get that lousy rat off my back,” Father rolls his eyes and straightens his posture. “You did quite well, Whitley. I’m glad you remember what I’ve taught you.” The truth doesn’t matter if no one can prove you wrong.

“Yes, Father. You’re absolutely correct.” Whitley smiles and it makes his stomach curl sourly, because he hates the man who created him.

“That’s my boy,” His father had latched onto their similarities and uses them to twist him—to turn him against his sisters. Whitley knows this, but it’s too late. His father’s intentions started to influence him years ago. He’s already tainted beyond repair. Weiss want nothing to do with him. It’s been months since he’s spoken to Winter. His support begins and ends with his father, while his siblings have lives and friends far beyond Atlas, far away from him.

\------

Winter’s steel blade clashes against her opponent’s, sending fresk sparks across the training room floor. It’s been three months since Whitley last spoke to her, a year since he’s been her in person. She’s visited a total of three times across the past year. He made sure to be out in the city for two of them, and just avoided her during the last. As time passes, he grows less concerned with appearing rude or condescending. It’s easier to view Winter and Weiss as the roots of his suffering, because they’re hardly ever around. If he acknowledged his father as the cause of his struggles and agony, then he’d likely lose his mind, knowing he has to stay here until he turns eighteen (or can find another opportunity to escape).

Winter loops her foot around her sparring partner’s calf while he’s distracted, causing him to topple to the ground. He moves to roll away, but is halted by Winter’s blade pointing at his throat. Whitley refuses to be impressed. He knows he’s peering into a world he can never be apart of. The moment he becomes impressed is the moment he’ll begin to feel inferior, again.

“That was impressive, Winter,” He steps out from behind a marble pillar to greet her as she sheathes her weapon. His smile is blank and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m glad to see that your years of away have gone to good use.”

“Thank you,” Winter’s tone is terse and he really can’t blame her. The animosity between them is kind of clear. No one has said anything. There have been no, open declarations of hatred. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you here for?”

“Father is busy with a few guests, right now. So he sent me to tell you that lunch is rescheduled to 1:30.” He drawls.  
“And you won’t be there?” It really isn’t a question, but it still surprises him. He didn’t think Winter cared, anymore. They were in separate worlds.

“No. I think not,” Whitley shrugs, “I’m going over the company’s finances. Father is thinking about putting me in charge of managing them.”

“Is that so? I’m glad you’re applying yourself,” She doesn’t try to fake a smile, and he appreciates that. Winter represents everything he cannot have in life, and he despises her for it. However, she’s always straight to the point. “Whitley, why don’t you talk, anymore?” She doesn’t waste her time, doesn’t hesitate or try to make excuses.

“I grew up,” Whitley pauses and wonders how much he should really tell her. In his heart, there’s still hesitation. He wants to hate Winter. He wants to hate Weiss. But something inside of him protests, insists that he shouldn’t. Father has tainted so much in his life—turned colors to dull blacks and whites. “I realized that relying on Weiss won’t do me any good. We have to be able to fend for ourselves or else we won’t have any success in life.” It’s another lesson that Father has crammed into their minds since birth, for the purpose of keeping them obedient. The more divided they are, the harder it’ll be to resist, to escape.

“And you still have quite a bit of growing to do,” Winter says calmly, but to Whitley it sounds like a lofty and arrogant statement. He’s at the tender age of fourteen, so of course he’s not perfect (not yet), but he’s wiser and more mature than most of his peers. He’s grown tired of having his accomplishments and growth go unacknowledged, so it stings to have Winter only further the notion that he’s incomplete. It’s not intentional, of course. There’s no way she could know about the self-hatred that’s been ingrained in him for years. “Whitley. I know growing up here is difficult. Our father hasn’t exactly been the best parent. But that’s even more of a reason to stay close to Weiss.” There’s a tender look on her face and Whitley hates it.

He knows that she’s remembering the more tender times in their lives, when she was still his older sister. When he was still her little brother. His fingers lace together and his posture straightens to an almost painful degree.

“Difficult? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He says bitterly, narrowing his eyes at her, “Father has given me everything I need in life. And unlike you or Weiss, I’m thankful for it.” It’s a roundabout, vague way of saying “I understand your concerns, but I don’t care about them. Leave me alone.” 

It seems the universe is on his side, for once. Because before Winter can even open her mouth to reply, General Ironwood is walking in. He wears the same, stern expression as always and it does nothing for his attractiveness. He looks constipated. Whitley wants to tell him that he won’t be getting women looking like that, but he’s nowhere near his father on the social ladder, so he wouldn’t be able to get away with it. One day he’ll get there. Likely by the time the general is retired, but it’s good to think about.

“Schnee,” The general halts once he spots Whitley, posture becoming even more rigid. “Good afternoon.”

“General Ironwood.” Winter salutes, and Whitley attempts to slouch further, showing how much he doesn’t give a damn. Ironwood has two seats on the council, which he’s quite fond of bragging about. The Man with Two Council Seats is what Father has taken to calling him (refusing to give him the dignity of actually having a name). From what Whitley knows, Father hates the general, and that’s enough for him to hate the general, too. 

(“That’s my boy.” Father says for the second time in a week. Whitley feels the sudden urge to tear his hair out.)

“I’ll be heading back to the ship. It seems that Jacques has had his fill of my presence,” Ironwood says jokingly, and Whitley really wants to be mad. “So, I’ll be going back to the academy. There’ll be a ship waiting to pick you up in two days, at six AM,” He tosses a look back at Whitley, his eyebrows furrowing. “Sorry to take your sister away so soon.”

Whitley just wants to be everything his father tells him to be. He wants to be unquestioning (unfeeling). He wants to be a lifeless doll. Because it would be less painful. Because all of the conflict in him would just go away if he could twist himself to be the image of perfection in his Father’s eyes. But he can’t be mad. Because deep down, he knows he hates Father for destroying their family. As long as Father isn’t around, Whitley can enjoy jokes at his expense without fear.

“It’s fine, really. I’ve heard that my sister is doing great work in the military,” Whitley says with a smile, not even bothering to look in Winter’s direction. “Have a safe trip back, General Ironwood.”

The general says a polite farewell, but he can’t bear to even admit that. Whitley turns his back, done with the conversation and done with being in Winter’s presence. 

\------

“Surely, they must see the light soon, Father.” Whitley chimes as he strides at his father’s side, now tall enough to keep up. The hallowed halls of their mansion glow bright white, pure and unfitting for Father’s current mental state. Father hates attending council meetings, viewing every other member as mere competition. He hates the idea of unity and trust with other nobles because he feels it’ll hurt business if they get friendly. Of course, there is power in relationships. But several of the council members have stated their dissatisfaction with Father’s insatiable greed. 

“Of course they will,” Father insists. They reach the end of the hallway, standing in front of the huge double doors. The council is holding their meeting in the Schnee mansion, today. Father intends to win them over, so he can count on their support in the future. He may hate most of them, but having rich “friends” in high places is worth the trouble. 

Whitley realizes that he’s spent so much time around Father, that he knows the man’s thinking process inside and out. That frightens him.

He doesn’t get the opportunity to think on it, because Father throws the doors to the room open and steps inside, greeting the council members with a plastic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Good afternoon. I hope the trip here treated you all well,” He greets, and Whitley trails behind him. “This is my son, Whitley. I plan to have him sit in on this meeting today, in order to prepare him to be one of the Schnee company’s diplomats.”

“Good afternoon.” Whitley greets with a polite, moderate bow. “It’s an honor to be here. I’ve heard much about the exploits of the Atlas Council and look forward to working with you, in the future.” His father moves towards the head of the table, sitting beside the general and not sparing the man a glance. Whitley takes up residence in the corner of the room, quiet and out of the way as he has been his entire life.

“Alright, then let’s get started,” Ironwood takes the initiative and no one tries to dispute that, “Thistle, how many of our troops are still in Vale?” Whitley doesn’t pay too much attention to what the military does, outside of what directly affects the company. He knows that Ironwood is pulling their soldiers back to protect Atlas in case of an attack, but there’s not much else he cares about. His father seems to think the same way, resting his cheek on the palm of his hand and moving his gaze towards the ceiling, very purposefully looking bored and only giving input when necessary.

“Jacques, I’d also like you to start bringing your miners back from Mantle,” The general’s order rings loud and clear, and that catches Whitley’s attention. Father puts his hand back down on the table and straightens his posture, not hesitating to stare Ironwood in the face with a blatantly uninterested expression.

“And why, pray tell, would I do that?” His tone drips with malice and Whitley almost zones out, again. Father always gets his way. After spending a lifetime near the man, he knows that no one tells his Father what to do and gets away with it. Of course, General Ironwood is known for shattering expectancies, being the youngest general to ever head Atlas’s security. The man is tyrannical and doesn’t hesitate to flaunt how he has two seats in the council.

“Because grimm sightings in Mantle have increased. I want you to bring your Atlas-native miners home,” Ironwood says firmly. “This is not up for discussion.” Father leans back in his seat and eyes the general. Whitley knows he’s in the middle of deciding whether this fight is worth having. 

“Alright. We’ll start bringing them back.” Father relents, expression curling into an unpleasant frown. And just like that, General Ironwood has done what Whitley has always dreamed of doing. He wants the power to say “no” to his father. 

“Thank you.” Ironwood doesn’t give a deadline, like Whitley hoped he would. The meeting carries on. He delights in the small inconveniences that his Father faces. When dealing with people who he can’t control, his life gets more difficult. Whitley has hardly ever seen the man face any opposition before. He has viewed his Father as the most powerful man in Atlas for his entire life, the person who decides whether he eats tonight or not, whether he succeeds or not. Attending this meeting is an eye-opening experience, because it shows him that yes, his Father has limits. Yes, there are magical places where his Father’s influence cannot reach. There are places he hasn’t corrupted and never will. 

Father frowns whenever another council member disagrees with him, and his eyebrows pinch together in a scowl when Thistle snags the last creampuff before he can. His protests are drowned out when a new bill for securing faunus rights is talked about in a positive light. And Whitley loves every second of it.

“I believe some of us at this table carry prejudice within their hearts.” Bellerose, one of the wealthiest military officials in Atlas, drawls. He doesn’t look at Father but the entire table knows who he means. Whitley doesn’t blame the man, really. Especially since his wife is a faunus. If he had one in his family, he would likely feel obliged to defend them, too. Father’s grip tightens around the handle of his coffee mug, but he doesn’t say anything. Seeing him powerless is a strange but delightful kind of trip, really. 

“Really? How unfortunate.” Thistle remarks, calmly sipping her tea. Whitley can clearly see that she’s trying not to smile. The entire table is making a fool out of his father.

“I’m putting an embargo on dust, too.” Ironwood mentions casually, as though talking about the weather. That’s the last straw, the last bit of provocation before Father stands up and slams his hands on the table, face glowing bright red with anger.

“Like hell you will!” There’s pure malice on his face, “I am one of the wealthiest, most successful men in Atlas and I will not stand to be made a fool of! You can sit on your asses and giggle all you’d like, but this! This is not happening. You will not make my business suffer because of your paranoia.” He fumes, staring Ironwood down with a molten gaze.

“It’s a safety precaution. You’ll still be able to distribute dust within our borders,” Whitley isn’t sure that isolating Atlas is a viable solution. If anything, it’ll only stifle communication with other kingdoms and make it more difficult to defend the kingdom in case an attack does happen. But he doesn’t say anything, because it’s not his place to. Father isn’t right. And while Ironwood is refreshing to see and listen to, he’s not completely right, either. 

“You plan to make us safer by isolating us?” Father stares at him incredulously. “Do you not have any confidence in your ability to protect us, general Ironwood? Have you gone insane?” The rest of the council remains silent as Ironwood stands up, towering over Father. Something in his expression has changed and Whitley feels the room grow tense. An ominous feeling lingers. He’s not the only one feeling it, judging by the expressions of the other council members. To Father’s credit, he doesn’t sit down or look away. He stares straight into the general’s eyes and waits for a response, expression twisted into one of deep discontent.

“We’ll be voting on this proposal next week. If you’re that against it, I suggest talking to your fellow council members. Because I’m not going to budge.” The general sweeps his gaze across the other council members. “This meeting is adjourned. We’ll meet at the capital, next Wednesday.”

The various nobles and officers file out of the room, but Whitley stays behind and focuses his gaze ahead of him, absolutely expressionless. There’s no telling how Father will react when frustrated like this. He usually doesn’t get physical. But there’s no telling. Fortunately, Jacques wordlessly motions him over and turns to exit the room, silent. Whitley walks behind him, silent, posture proud and rigid like he’s been taught. He makes sure to look displeased so Father will think he agrees with him.

“Absolutely idiotic.” Jacques half-says and half-mutters. 

“They’re cowards. Every last one of them.” Whitley reassures him. And in all honesty? He half agrees. Isolating Atlas won’t get them anywhere. But Whitley doesn’t much care for the future of this kingdom, as its one build on shallow ideals and greed. The gears turn inside his head, because he’s realized that Father isn’t invincible, that Father can be outdone or outwitted like any other human being. 

Father keeps his gaze straight ahead. Whitley smiles behind him, like a killer holding a knife behind his back.

\------

Winter comes back on a frosty, Sunday evening close to Christmas. Weiss will not be joining them. He can’t say he’s surprised. She’s been trying to escape this godforsaken place for years, now. She was born to leave, he thinks. And it’s not like he blames her for not coming back. It’ll probably make the next two weeks easier, if anything. Less people means less arguing. Winter has just about given up on ever getting through to Father. Mother’s actually never tried from the start. Whitley has always known that it’s a hopeless endeavor.

“I hear you’re practically head of financing,” Winter says to him. The kitchen is usually his favorite place to be from mid morning to early afternoon. Father has his lunch brought to his study and no one else comes around. Except Winter, when she’s at home and probably feeling nosy. Whitley taps his pen against the table and glances away from the wretched book of numbers he’s been staring at for the past, two hours. He has a number of snarky replies prepared just in case Winter ever tries to talk to him, but they’re all made quiet by the look she’s giving him.

There’s a warmth in her eyes that’s both strange and foreign, an emotion he’s never quite seen before. It’s like she’s proud of him, and he doesn’t know why it makes his heart wither and curl in his chest. Then it hits him that Father has never once looked at him like that, has never been proud of him. Has never spared him a genuine compliment after spending hours managing the company’s finances. Sure, there are compliments, but they’re so brisk that he knows they’re fake. So quick and small that he can’t feel them at all. 

“Yeah.” He sounds shakier than he would have liked to. Over the years, he’s done everything possible to wittle down his emotions. The world he lives in is cold and dangerous and horribly aristocratic. Emotion is a weakness. 

“You’ve always had quite the talent for numbers,” She closes her eyes and ages about ten years. Whitley doesn’t like the way the bags under her eyes suddenly pop out, “I never acknowledged you enough, Whitley. And for that, I apologize.” The sudden apology surprises him more than her solemness ever will. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard the words “I apologize” or “I’m sorry” said so genuinely to him. Childhood spats with Weiss would sometimes end with her folding her arms and spitting out an apology like venom. But that was more to get the situation over with. Never real.

“It’s fine,” Whitley mutters, no snarky retorts to be found, “It’s really fine. You don’t have to acknowledge me. You and Weiss were always the more naturally gifted of us, anyways.” He says it with a smile. But there’s a frail bitterness to his voice. Winter’s expression freezes. Any other time, he would have relished in seeing her so dumbfounded. It’s like she’s just pieced together the puzzle, just discovered the grand truth behind their family’s unraveling.

“Whitley,” Her voice is slower, as careful as he’s ever heard it. She looked pained, she looks dazed. He doesn’t like it, but he wishes he did. He wishes he could just blindly follow every one of father’s desires, wishes he could be happy with all of it. Because living in oblivion would be so much easier than trying to find the truth, trying to acknowledge that everything he’s been fed since his birth is a lie. “Is… is that why you’ve distanced yourself from Weiss and I?”

“It’s just practical. You and Wiess can be in the field, while I stay in the background and manage the intricacies of the company. It’s the usual situation.” He looks emptily at his papers because it’s easier than looking at her distraught expression. 

“You can’t possibly—”

“I can,” Whitley interrupts her sharply, his eyes narrowing. He’s had enough of her sympathy, of her reasoning. Why can’t she just leave him here, in his misery? “Because it’s what I’m good at, sister. It’s what I’ve always been good at. I’m a practical thinker. I’m an expert in accounting and finances. I can’t earn a free pass and abandon my family because I’m not gifted with a semblance like you are.” He wants to raise his voice, but he refuses to. He goes quieter, because he’s not his father. One of Winter’s hands slams down on the table. When he looks up to her face, she looks older than he’s ever seen her.

“You don’t need any of that to become your own person!” She says, and it echoes through the hollow kitchen. “You have so many gifts, Whitley! You’re so intelligent, so clever, and you have two sisters who would be absolutely willing to help you!”

“I can’t rely—” He starts.

“You can! Because that’s what family is really for! Family members are supposed to help each other!” Winter cuts him off, and he finds himself drawn to the living flame that she’s become. “I know you can become someone bigger, someone better than you are, right now,” She sounds like she’s pleading, “You just need to stop worrying about what you don’t have and start using what you do.”

And then it’s quiet. He’s left stunned by the information that now lies at his feet. Winter takes a deep breath and pulls herself back together. She rebuilds her composure, like he’s seen her do so many times. She recreates her demeanor, becomes someone completely different than who she just was.

“I understand how you feel,” She says, quiet. “And if you want to talk to me, I’ll be in my old room.” He doesn’t speak up as she walks out of the kitchen. Instead, he listens to the click of her heels against the marble ground. The noise fades into the distance, and the kitchen feels colder than ever.

\------

When Weiss comes home for the first time, after the Fall of Beacon, Whitley sees everything. It’s been months since they’ve spoken. The rift between them has expanded far beyond what it once was. Before, they were years apart. Now, they are centuries away from each other. Weiss travels among a wide open future while Whitley is still shoulders deep into the past. She was happier at Beacon, he can already tell. Her entire being is steadily unraveling with each moment she remains home. In Vale, she was free to do as she pleased, away from the watchful gaze of their father.

But now, she is a prisoner of her lineage, captured in the past. Whitley wants to say he’s glad to see her suffer, but he’s really not. Of course, he’ll pretend to relish in her grief, if only for the purpose of being her away. Their first exchange in months was genuine. Whitley would be nasty to her. He’d rip her confidence to pieces, but he wasn’t interested in letting her suffer by father’s hands. Over the languid years, Whitley has come to realize that seeing his father agitated is his greatest delight. He’s come to thoroughly enjoy Ironwood’s visits. It lets him see his father vulnerable, a state he was seldom able to witness before. 

He hears the true message of her song, an anthem against the tyranny of their father. He sees an example of her growing power in the form of a summon, after her outburst in the middle of their father’s lavish party. He feels her grief, almost as his own. 

“Whitley, you wanted this to happen.” 

He didn’t. He really didn’t. Because he’s the heir to the Schnee company and it’s just another piece of rope around him throat, tying him tight to Atlas’s toxic roots. 

His shoes click against the ground as he heads towards Weiss’s room. His heart pumps in his throat. Blood roars in his ears. Because Whitley Schnee is not a fighter and he never will be. His hand trembles as it grabs her doorknob, tugging it open. His gaze roams briefly over her room. She’s training. He can see the grand symbol curved into the ground, gleaming and white. It’s beautiful. And he’s never been able to admire the Schnee glyphs before, because they’ve always resembled what he can never have.

Except, they don’t. Not anymore.

“Hello sister.” He can tell she’s not happy to see him. Her expression is flat, but he knows that there’s rage broiling underneath the surface. Begging to break free like the caged bird she’s become. He knows what he’s about to do will work, because he knows her.

“Leave.”

“How hurtful. And here I am, about to offer you a favor,” The acidity of her voice doesn’t unnerve him, and he keeps going, “Father is taking me into town to meet some of his business partners,” Leave now, while you can. He pleads inwardly, he begs. “I thought I’d see if you wanted me to pick up anything for you. Since you’re… well, stuck here.” He looks at her with that smug expression he knows she hates, one he knows will make her temper boil.

“Are you jealous? Is that it?” She snaps back. 

“Whatever do you mean?” He plays dumb, because she also despises that. He’s used that tactic countless times, mostly to agitate her in their younger years. It had been a fantastic way to bully her, to feel in control. But that’s not the intended effect, this time. “Is that why you hate me? Are you jealous of my abilities?” Yes, he wants to say. Yes, he wants to mend their broken relationship. He wants to have someone to cling to, someone who will listen to his worries without judging. Someone who won’t leave him here. “Of Winter’s?”

But if he does that, she won’t fly. She won’t reach the limits he wants her to. Because he wants her to succeed, and the groomed part of him hates that.

“Hmm. No. Not really,” Whitley is an expert at looking and sounding disdainful. If he were to guess, he inherited it from father, “I find it barbaric. It’s beneath people like me. Like father,” Bring out the heavy, metal bat. Bring out everything she hates about Atlas, about here, “What could a single huntsman do that an army could not? That’s why we have one. Even if it is run by a fool.” She likes Ironwood, so he talks poorly of him, too. 

Get angry. Get angry enough to leave. You have all the tools you need to succeed, away from here. Use them.

“I said, leave.” Weiss demands, and he yields, hands up in a grand display of surrender.

“Fine, fine. I’ve got better things to do,” He turns on his heel and strolls out of the room, like the pompous fool he wants to look like, “Enjoy your… training, however pointless it is…” He turns and holds the doorframe, ready to drive the point home. “What is it that you hope to accomplish, anyways? While trapped in your own bedroom?”

The door slams shut, and he knows that control of the situation is out of his hands. Like it has been for his entire life. Whitley shoves his hands into his pockets and walks down the hall, empty, empty so empty. It’s pointless to try further.

Because Whitley Schnee is not a fighter.

Because family members are supposed to help each other.

Because he wants to be someone better than he is, now.


End file.
